in the bedroom
His leg touches my skin and yet what he wants, pesters me for are my thoughts, memories, and hidden meanings I attempt to bury in the stories I write. Breasts on display and he cares not...
"I can't speak of his novel. I can't." Crushing out the cigarette, I light another and tap my phone to change the music. The familiar sad melody brings relief and I close my eyes, fading into comfortable melancholy.
"Speak of something, because the silence..."
He studies my body, fists clenching and gripping the notebook, knuckles turning white with effort. I can't help smiling that my flesh does test and torment him after all, payback for digging into the painful doors of locked memories in my brain.
"Do you want me to put on a robe?"
"Yes," he says as if that's what's been on his mind rather than prying at my secrets.
Taking a deep drag and blowing a smoke ring, I wink at him. "I want you to stop asking about my husband. You'll live longer if you pay more attention to my body and less to poking around playing head doctor."
"The instructions George gave me contradict..." He begins to speak, but I interrupt by placing my hand on his lap and squeezing the hard tent in his jeans.
"Do not argue with me." He nods in agreement and I release my grip on him. "Are you suggesting I kill men without reason?"
"No..." he stammers and again I stop him, squeezing until a yelp escapes his lips.
"But you did. I said pay attention to my body rather than mess with my mind. How could anything George said to you contradict that? I kill rapists. Unless you plan on violating me in some manner, having sex with me won't lead to your death. Stop fucking believing everything you read in the newspaper."
Rolling off the bed, I yank the drawer open in my nightstand and grab my pipe. Taking three quick hits in succession, I wait until the anger clears from my brain before looking at him. He body shakes and I wonder if it's from fear or desire. The thought going through his brain must be some variation of I'm not leaving this room alive.
"Smoke," I say, tossing the pipe and joining him on the bed. He takes several hits and I grab the glass jar of weed to refill the pipe. "Are you afraid of sex with women or just me?"
With a sigh he takes the jar and begins to pack the pipe with fresh weed. Moments tick into minutes and the song loops on and on, keeping a steady sadness in the room.